What Dreams May Come
by Queen of Perfectionism
Summary: Inspired by the line 'For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come' from Shakespeare's Hamlet. Erik's thoughts of Christine and the horrors of his life as he waits for death, and the singing of his own requiem mass. Oneshot. Please R&R!


**What Dreams May Come**

She is gone.

Nevermore to sing for me in my house on the lake, not on the stage in the spotlight that would shine for her alone. Nor in her dressing room, as she stood before the mirror believing that it was her Angel of Music who spoke to her. But he was merely a monster, and I now know that in every way, _I am that monster_.

And she is gone.

And yet, the sound of her voice remains. It envelops my every thought, my every action. As I lie in my coffin, waiting for sleep, or death, for death would be a welcoming embrace compared to the emptiness of the loneliness that now shrouds my home, to overtake me, only her voice remains to comfort me. But instead of comfort, all that awaits me is torment. For her voice echoes through every passage of this God-forsaken opera house. Through every hallway, down every stairwell, across the charred stage and out into the empty theater. The building reeks of her former presence. How cruelly ironic it is that _I_ was once the one who filled her head with song, but it is now she who is singing the songs in _my_ head. And her voice will not leave me until my dying day. But even then, I fear that her lovely voice will haunt me Hell, constantly reminding me of the salvation that will never be mine.

When I looked into her eyes on that accursed night, I knew that I could not have her. She was too pure, too angelic for any angel of hell to possess. She needed the light, without it, she would wither and die. Her fragile body could not withstand the fires of my hell, this I now realize. Before, I was blinded. By a hope for salvation. By the love that I believed would save me. And by the deception my own mind created. But now that blissful veil has been lifted without warning and I am left with the harshness of the reality that it once hid. The fact that I could never have her, that she would leave me once again to my solitude, but this time accompanied by so much more than a broken heart. Many believe that it is not possible to die from a broken heart alone. But the pain that now consumes every fiber of my being has convinced me that it is possible, and inevitable. Every night, or day, for I can no longer tell the difference, I pray, but to whom I am praying I cannot be sure, that death will be my deliverance from the hell in which I am now living. And every time that I wake I curse the God that allowed me to live another day.

When I first saw my hellish face as a child in the long mirror in my mother's room, I knew not the intensity with which it would rule my life. My face is what has brought about the deaths of so many, whether through my own doings or those of the fearful populace. Including myself. For I am convinced that I am no longer alive. All I feel is pain; pain from Satan's flames of Hades licking merrily at my marred corpse. Pain from the loss of so many loves and the emptiness from the ones I never knew.

Amongst the shattered ruins of my home, I know that death must come soon. The pangs of hunger that once plagued me have long dissipated, leaving to me to feel simply...hollow. The salt from my tears have absorbed all moisture and my skin has become as withered as old parchment. I have become the ghost I always claimed to be, and I believe that this is death, for everything that I once knew and possessed is gone.

But just as I finally begin to sink into the peace that I have been long denied, I realize something that startles me from my dark thoughts. Who will sing my requiem? The famed _Fantôme de l'Opéra_, the man who was once believed to be the Angel of Music and described to be the very music itself,cannot leave this earth without the performance of the requiem mass. With this thought, I summon all of my remaining strength and force myself from the confines of my satin-lined coffin and begin to stagger toward the organ.

The only one who could have truly laid me to rest is gone. I know all too well that the Heavens' angels will not sing for me. Not even Lucifer's devils will sing the requiem mass for me. So I will have to sing for myself. Now it seems that an angel will be asking for forgiveness, _for was I not described many a time as possessing the voice of an angel?_

Hours seem to pass before I finally reach the massive organ and collapse onto the elaborately carved organ bench. Each ivory key gleams with polish that has never been chipped away. I spread my skeletal fingers over the keys, caressing each like the lover I have never had. With the depression of the opening keys, I begin Mozart's final and most famed composition, the requiem mass.

At first, I cannot bring myself to sing. I part my parched lips only to find that not sound will immerge. But still I continue to play, becoming lost in the prayer for my own salvation. With no one left to redeem me, I now have no one to turn to but God. I God who I know has never felt even the most detached compassion for me. My last chance for deliverance depends entirely on this last confession of my sins and my plea for salvation.

I continue with the requiem mass, mouthing the words silently. But when I reach the _Dies Irae_, I finally find my voice, although the sound that enters the room is barely audible as a whisper, and is no longer the angelic voice it was once professed to be.

_ "Day of wrath, that day will dissolve the earth in ashes as David and the Sibyl bear witness. What dread there will when the Judge shall come to judge all things strictly. A trumpet, spreading a wondrous sound through the graves of all lands, will drive mankind before the throne. Death and Nature shall be astonished when all creation rises again to answer to the Judge."_

The requiem is imprinted in my memory, for I have played it many a time, and my fingers dance knowingly across the keys of the organ. I allow my mind to drift, focusing now on the confession of my most heinous crimes. And they are plentiful...

_ "A book, written in, will be brought forth in which is contained everything that is out of which the world shall be judged. When therefore the Judge takes His seat whatever is hidden will reveal itself. Nothing will remain unavenged. What then shall I say, wretch that I am what advocate entreat to speak for me, when even the righteous may hardly be secure?"_

I recall every one of my falls from grace, each one having wrenched me farther and farther from the eternal glow of heaven's light. I recount them all, confessing for the sins that were consequences of each, but strangely, I feel no remorse. Maybe I no longer feel pain, as I have endured so much of it. Oh what a blessing that would be, but I know that no God would offer such a kindness to placate my pain...

_ "King of awful majesty, who freely savest the redeemed, save me, O fount of goodness. Remember, blessed Jesus, that I am the cause of Thy pilgrimage, do not forsake me on that day. Seeking me Thou didst sit down weary, thou didst redeem me, suffering death on the cross. Let not such toil be in vain. Just the avenging judge, grant remission before the day of reckoning."_

Yes, remember me Lord. The one soul you forgot, and turned toward him a blind eye. The one created to be so imperfect, that none of your creations could accept me, much less show me anything resembling love. And so, redeem me, just as you have redeemed so many others. The murderers, the thieves, the solicitors in the houses of ill-repute, and the common sinners. Am I not one of them? Am I not also begging for redemption? For thy holy forgiveness? But you have never cared. Why should you now?

_ "I groan like a guilty man. Guilt reddens my face. Spare a suppliant, O God. Thou who didst absolve Mary Magdalene and didst hearken to the thief, to me also hast Thou given hope. My prayers are not worthy, but though I Thy merciful goodness grant that I burn not in everlasting fire. Place me among Thy sheep and separate me from the goats, setting me on Thy right hand. When the accursed have been confounded and given over to the bitter flames, call me with the blessed._

I know that I have never been among the sheep, but for once, Oh Lord, please count me among them. Oh too well I know that I do not deserve this show of compassion, but I beg of thee, forgive me my sins. I could not be with her in this life, but maybe in the next world I can, maybe in the next...

_ "I pray in supplication on my knees. My heart contrite as the dust, safeguard my fate. Mournful that day when from the dust shall rise guilty man to be judged. Therefore spare him, O God. Merciful Jesus, Lord, grant them rest. Amen."_

And as the final note of the requiem fades into oblivion, I feel the last of my strength leave me. Violent sobs rack my body, my very soul. The memories come flooding back to me. Memories of the chill that came from seeing my own mother cringe at my very presence. Memories of the beautiful swans in the gardens of Persia, and how I so longed to become one of them. Memories of my beloved Christine, so vivid that I swear I could almost reach out and stroke the porcelain skin of her cheek and know once more the feel of her lips feather-soft against my own. But I know she is not there. And nor will she ever be again.

The pain that suddenly grabs hold of me is so intense that it is although the flames of Hell are already devouring me, but consuming me from the inside out. Sweet merciful darkness slowly begins to cloud my eyes and I feel myself slipping into the eternal sleep of the dead. But for once I will be most willing to slip into the loving caress of sleep. _For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come._

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**Note:** The quote that was the inspiration for the title of this fic, "For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come", is from William Shakespeare's play Hamlet. It comes from what is possibly the most well-known speech in the English language, the famous soliloquy in _Hamlet_: "To be, or not to be." In it, Hamlet contemplates suicide by comparing death to sleep, with the notion that death will bring an end to his pain and suffering.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing that belongs to Mousier Gaston, Ms. Susan Kay, or dear Willy Shakespeare. For if I did, I would be a very wealthy girl, no?

You know the drill faithful readers of fanfiction, please leave a **REVIEW** after reading! Come, come, I know you want tooooooo: )


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